


The courtship of Sheriff Stilinski : a First Time interlude

by devilscut



Series: The last time was the first time [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mates, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/pseuds/devilscut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This belongs to "The First Time" verse which can be found on AO3.</p><p>When Sheriff John Stilinski leaves his son's hospital room after a confrontation over Derek Hale that leaves him sick and shattered he didn't expect to get cornered in the elevator by none other than Derek's psycho uncle, Peter Hale.  The werewolf who had hurt his son and now he's got John pinned and is he seriously sniffing him and calling him 'mate'.. if only he can get to his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The first time.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/953617) by [devilscut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/pseuds/devilscut). 



> This belongs to the 'First Time' verse, however, I was reluctant to put it into the main text of that fic because that is Stiles' story about his relationship with Derek and how it grows. So I've created a series and there maybe other chapters to come because I just can't resist a John/Peter pairing.
> 
> This sits between chapters 31 & 32 of 'The First Time'
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

Sheriff John Stilinski steps into the elevator when the doors slide open.  Any other time Stiles had been in hospital he’d stayed at his bedside, wanting to be near his son.. wanting Stiles to take comfort in his presence.  This time.. dear God, this time he’s not sure he can.  He’s afraid.  Afraid of what he might say.. afraid of his son even as he fears for him.

 

John can sense it like an electrical charge in the very air around Stiles, it pulses with untapped energy and it reminds him of Claudia although she only had a fraction of the kind of power he can feel thrumming within their child.  He’d often thought of her as a force of nature, wild and untamed.  If she was the wind and the storm.. Stiles is the hurricane and the tornado.

 

She’d drawn him to her so effortlessly it was almost primal, instinctive.. with her kind heart and those beautiful golden amber eyes that could light up a room that their son had inherited.. along with other things he’d determinedly been able to ignore during 12 years of marriage.  **_Other things_** that she’d asked him not to be afraid of.. like if she somehow knew things she shouldn’t or could do things that weren’t possible.. he’d not asked and she’d not given up her secrets.  He couldn’t do that with Stiles though.  How could he protect his boy if he didn’t understand.. this ability.. this power?

 

He’d walked away from Stiles’ hospital room with the knowledge that if his son really wanted to.. really, really wanted to.. he could hurt someone.  Badly.  That he’d had that power focused on him for those heart-stopping few moments and Stiles had found the strength to hold back gave him some hope.

 

Grimacing, he sees his hands visibly shake as he presses the button for the hospital’s ground floor when he hears a masculine voice from the hallway call out.

 

“Hold the doors please.” 

 

Automatically, John presses the ‘doors open’ button and holds it until the other person walks in before letting it go.  He doesn’t acknowledge the other man even though he’s wearing his uniform and he usually tries to present a friendly approachable image to the general public.. but not today.  Not after the things he’s seen.. the things he’s discovered.  He’s too tired and too beaten to care.

 

So he keeps his eyes averted because he can feel them stinging and knows that they’d be red rimmed if he looked into a mirror.  He just wants to go home and reacquaint himself with an old friend called Jack and find some oblivion.  The kind where he can forget everything.

 

Forget that his 16 year old son has been having a relationship with an older man excuse him.. an older werewolf over the past six years.. forget that Stiles has been lying to him practically every day for that time, lies of omission.. forget that he misses his wife so much that there is a permanent hole in his heart and nothing he does seems to be able to fill it.. forget that without her he’s botched up raising their son so badly, he really is a crappy father.. forget the look on his son’s face and in his eyes not more than ten minutes ago that begged him not to keep hurting him with the harsh and clinical words that were spewing uncontrollably from his mouth born of fear and pain and worst of all guilt.  He just wants to curl up and forget it all.

 

The doors slide close and he can hear the other person’s even breathing before they start to slowly hum and it takes John a moment to name it, because he recognises that tune.  ‘Strangers in the night’.  He frowns and is about to ask them quite politely to ‘shut the hell up’ when it stops and that smooth, masculine voice says “Would you mind pressing the emergency stop please?”

 

John’s hand moves towards the panel of buttons before he even thinks about it and then he realises what that voice has actually asked for.  He turns towards the other man and feels everything inside him freeze and he instinctively takes a step back which has him pressed up against the elevator wall as he sees the monster that took his son smiling at him in a way that sends shivers throughout his body.  

 

His hand drops to his gun and before he can clear it from his holster the other man.. no, not man.. the werewolf is on him.  His hand gripping John’s, not hurting but with enough pressure that he has to release his hold on the gun grip and he can feel it slide back home, the weight of it against his hip is normally reassuring but right now.. when it’s not in his hand about to fire a few rounds point blank into Peter Hale.. it’s a torment. 

 

Peter quickly slaps his hand over the ‘stop’ button and the elevator jerks to a halt and the shuddering motion pushes the wolf into him and John struggles desperately to get away.  Peter’s too quick and his long thick fingers wrap around his other wrist.  He twists and jerks, straining with everything he is, but the wolf holds him in place all too easily and it sickens him, thinking of it being used against Stiles.

 

“Now John, a bullet to the chest I can let go considering the unusual circumstances, but a second.. that would be pushing the boundaries of our relationship.”  He tilts his head and those brilliant crystal blue eyes bleed to red before John’s eyes and he can feel his gut lurch uncontrollably, not in fear.. okay a little bit in fear, but from the sheer fact that he’s seeing the impossible.  He’s seeing things that have only been thought of as myth and legend and it’s amazing and terrifying all at the same time.  For one brief nano-second he wonders how Stiles had dealt with this as a new reality that monsters were real.. maybe being younger he could accept it more easily.  Although looking into blazing red eyes John finds himself accepting it pretty fucking quick.

 

“The only relationship that we will ever have is investigating officer and corpse.. preferably corpse in pieces.”  John snarls and is disconcerted to see the brilliant smile that lights up the other man’s face as he chuckles in genuine amusement which just enrages him even more.

 

“Now I see where he gets it from.”   Peter leans in close, their faces only inches apart.  “You and Stiles have the same sense of bravado.”

 

 John stills and he can feel an icy calm descend over him and there must be something in his eyes that warns the wolf that if he continues to talk about Stiles he’s going to die.   Peter’s smile is long gone and his handsome face becomes impassive, he doesn’t say anything, simply watches him with an intensity that’s overwhelming.  The skin of his face prickles as he sees Peter examine him, his eyes that have returned to his human blue ones flicker over him restlessly.

 

“You won’t have a son soon.”  Peter says softly.

 

Rage and fear sweep through John in a wave and he can feel his pulse thundering in his ears.  “Don’t you threaten him.. I will kill you I swear to God if you come near him again.” 

 

“Hush now.. I’m not threatening, just observing and from that conversation I heard in Stiles’ room you’ll drive him away all by yourself.”  The almost disinterested tone is negated by the flutter of his eyelashes as he watches John’s mouth as he snarls at him.

 

“Stiles needs help because of your nephew.  Derek’s been doing.. God knows what to my son for years now.”  And doesn’t John’s heart ache at the knowledge.  That he’s been so caught up in the job and in trying to exist without Claudia that he’s let this happen.  That he’s not seen the damage his neglect has done to his boy until right now.

 

“Oh please..”  Peter shakes his head in amusement.  “Derek is a pup.. a boy scout and with his history.. whatever they’ve been doing it’s not what you’ve accused him of.  He would never hurt his mate.. why do you think he’s out there now doing a ‘children of the night’ impersonation?  Because he’s trying to honour your wishes by staying away **_and_** protect Stiles at the same time, he knows how important you are to him.  Your son’s virtue is still intact I can assure you.”

 

“Bullshit.”  John growls out.. he honestly can’t believe that they’re having this conversation.  One dangerous, psychotic werewolf trying to vouch for another.. it’s so ridiculous he has an insane urge to laugh out loud, so he does.. doesn’t hold back until his chest starts to hurt and he’s struggling to catch his breath.

 

Annoyance rolling off him in waves Peter sighs deeply, making their chests brush against each other and John can see a faint flush appear on the other man’s cheekbones as the werewolf’s gaze becomes almost slumberous and heavy lidded.  He leans in even closer and John can feel his hot breath against his skin.. a bittersweet flavour to it that he recognises and it makes him shift uncomfortably when he draws in the aroma of dark chocolate with the faintest whiff of mint.  It smells good.

 

“No bullshit, as you so eloquently put it.. virgins particularly teen ones have a certain scent to them.  A desperation and an anxiety that lends itself to a particular perfume all of their own.”  John can only stare at him blankly because seriously.. what the..?

 

“In other words your virgin son smells horny and unfucked.. sweeter than candy.”  Peter says patiently with the barest minimal eyeroll.

 

“I know what you mean damn it.. just you can really smell that?”  He can feel the depth of the furrow on his forehead from where he’s frowning so hard.. it’s almost painful.  He’s usually able to tell when people are lying.. it’s become almost intuitive now after so long on the job, but with this man and all too painfully he realises his son.. he can’t tell either way. 

 

John can’t help the little huff of frustration that escapes him, which to his horror becomes a squeak of dismay at the way Peter’s head weaves back and forth in front of him nostrils flaring, eyelids fluttering closed in concentration.  With something very much like shock making his gut go tight, John realises that the werewolf is sniffing at the very breath that passes between his lips.  What the fucking hell?

 

Eventually, the other man opens his eyes and John can see that his pupils are blown and he looks almost dazed or on drugs he thinks sourly.  Peter looks at him for what feels like the longest moment before he says “Yes” in answer to a question that John had almost forgotten asking before dipping his head down to press his nose along John’s jawline and inhaling deeply.  Sniffing again.. really.  Peter's hands tighten around John’s wrists and he thinks it’s an unconscious act on the other man’s part, there will be bruises there later he’s sure of it.

 

John stiffens in place as he feels the other man’s body brush against his.  Turns his head, straining away, trying to avoid the way that Peter is pressing his face hard against his throat and he’s still talking almost mumbling now and John’s just barely making out what he’s saying.  “Mine” and something that sounds like “my mate” are just a couple of the words he can understand and Peter’s moist hot breath against his skin makes him shiver and he tells himself it’s fear and disgust, not that it’s been so long since another person’s been in such intimate close quarters with him.  When did he last go on a date?  What year was this?

 

“I can smell everything.  The chocolate chip cookie you ate with a coffee earlier..”  He lifts John’s hand to his face and runs his nose over his knuckles and fingers, inhaling deeply. 

 

“Your cock where you’ve held it today.  Delicious."  John flinches in shock and embarrassment, can feel his face heat up as he sees the way the werewolf licks his lips. 

 

“The embarrassment in your scent now, trying to overpower the oranges and charred oak that is you.”  Peter lifts his head and his eyes are glowing red and that usually smirking mouth isn’t anymore, his lips are slightly parted and he’s panting, soft little puffs of air blowing against John’s face.

 

“You smell so good.. my mate.”  John can feel Peter’s chest vibrating against his from the low rumbling growls he’s making and as he watches the other man warily he realises that.. holy fucking hell.. Peter’s face is getting closer and closer to his and his red eyes are fixed on his mouth and John can feel panic welling up inside him and he lashes out the only way he can.

 

Peter’s eyes roll back in his head when John’s knee makes forceful contact with the werewolf’s balls and he instinctively lets go of his wrists to cup his nuts before stumbling backwards and writhing on the floor of the elevator.  John pulls out his gun, not daring for one moment to take his eyes off the fallen man as he blindly reaches out and presses the button again to get the elevator moving. 

 

When they reach the ground floor, the doors slide open and John’s relieved to see that no one’s waiting at this early hour of the morning.  They’re alone.  Peter’s practically recovered from having his balls being rammed up into his throat and has pushed himself over to sit on the floor, his back against the wall.  John keeps his gun trained on the unnervingly quiet werewolf who watches him with crystal blue eyes.

 

“Stay away from me.. stay away from my son.”  John rasps out in a fierce whisper.  Peter draws one knee up and rests his arm on it, shaking his head as he stares at John’s face with an intensity that leaves him shaken.

 

“I can’t.”  Peter says simply, shrugging his broad shoulders and John could almost swear there is a helplessness in the werewolf’s expression as though he couldn’t keep away even if he wanted to.  Fleetingly he wonders if he said the same thing to Derek would he get the same answer, before pushing it to one side as he focuses on the seated man.

 

“This is your only warning.  Stay away.”  John walks out of the elevator and he can feel the weight of the werewolf's eyes on his back and even though it goes against every ingrained instinct he has.. he doesn't turn around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Peter releasing Scott into Laura's guardianship, Sheriff John Stilinski finds himself inexplicably drawn to seek out the older werewolf. It's an encounter that leaves him shaken.
> 
> This sits between chapters 34 and 35 of 'The First Time'.
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

John doesn’t know why he does it.  Why he follows the older werewolf out onto the front porch of the McCall’s house when he sees him slip away from the others.  Tells himself that with the way the other man’s hands are shaking so violently he just wanted to check that he wasn’t going to kick the bucket on Melissa’s front lawn. 

 

The paperwork would be a nightmare and frankly, he’s just not up for it.  He’s too.. everything.  Too exhausted, too emotional, too worried, too pumped up and basically it’s ALL too much.  His stomach lurches wildly and he can’t remember the last thing he had to eat or even when it was.  He’s heading for a crash and burn of epic proportions and he can’t seem to bring himself to care.

 

In the aftermath of whatever the fuck it was he’s just witnessed, this _lupus custard_ thingy or where Peter Hale effectively gave up all control of Scott as his.. his whatever, the rest of his extended family and the other Hales were still in the middle of trying to keep Scott calm and centred on his first full moon.  It freaks John out seeing the way Scott’s features visibly ripple and change, he’s seen the Hales do it and it didn’t affect him this way, but seeing that familiar, beloved goofy face of the boy he considers a second son morphing into something so predatory unsettles him badly. 

 

Primal instincts rake through his gut telling him to fight whatever endangers his family.  That it happens to be a family member that **_is_** the threat has him all twisted into knots, ones of confusion and indecision and it bugs the hell out of him leaving him edgy and a hair-trigger away from exploding from the volatility of everything he’s feeling, because that’s not him.  It’s not who he is.  John Stilinski has always known what to do, both as a father and a lawman.  Always known what choices and decisions needed to be made no matter how hard or how little he liked them and yet with everything that’s been happening recently he feels lost and unsure in himself, cast adrift on a sea of uncertainty and the shoreline is getting further and further away. 

 

God,his head hurts.  The lump at the back of his skull, where he made contact with the wall, throbs painfully, and now damn it all.. he’s starting to crave rich, creamy frozen custard straight from the tub.  A tub all to himself with a big spoon so that he could savour it and lick it off slowly, preferably slumped in his recliner with a game, any game it didn’t matter what, showing on his flatscreen.  His son had his eating habits on absolute lockdown, so much that he can’t even remember the last time he’d had a dessert that didn’t consist of some form of fruit passing his lips.  He was a grown man blackmailed by his teenage son into eating so healthily that there were times he was convinced he was spontaneously going to transform into a stalk of broccoli or a round fleshy cantaloupe.  The corners of his mouth twitch as he pictures himself morphing into a celery stick in the midst of a pack of werewolves.  How's that for shape shifting? 

 

The little smile slowly evaporates.  In the past, if he’d ever needed proof of how much his son cared for him he’d just look in his fridge and see all the fruit and vegetables, low fat products and barfu.. ahem.. tofu as a taste-bud cruel reminder that his son loved him very much and wasn’t deliberately torturing him.  Yeah right.  Stiles always has this wicked gleam in his eye every time he tells him in painful detail what he’s having for dinner and how good it is for him. 

 

That’s all changed now. 

 

Not the dietary restrictions that have been imposed on him that’s for sure.  Only now he will forever have the lasting memory of holding his son’s hand and feeling every warm and loving emotion that his child felt for him and amazingly still feels for him.  A chill ripples over his skin when he thinks over how that had very nearly changed to a point well past forgiveness.  The knowledge that he’d nearly driven his son away with his own fears and insecurities sends a painful twinge through the very innermost core of him.  That he’d had to have it pointed out to him by a psychotic werewolf didn’t sit well with him either.

 

Stiles is a young man now.  The bittersweet pang grows, branching out and sits heavy in his chest at the realisation.  His little boy had somehow grown up without him noticing and from their discussion earlier in his SUV, he’s more mature and thoughtful than what John had given him credit for.  Maybe that was from running with wolves or maybe having an older boyfriend.  He can feel his face contort into a scowl at that thought, but when he remembers the look on Derek Hale’s face when he’d believed Stiles was in danger, an angry father waving a gun around in the deep woods and then with Chris Argent appearing on the scene like some sort of ninja super-soldier, he can feel his face relax somewhat.  The young man couldn’t hide the depth of feeling he had for his son and it hadn’t escaped John’s notice the way his body had instinctively stepped in front of Stiles’ ready to shield him, his need to protect him from harm even if it cost him his own life so very apparent.  

 

Yet isn’t being with the werewolf  the very reason Stiles is potentially in harm’s way?  He lets his cheeks fill with air and blows out a long satisfying huff of exasperation at the conundrum.  However, Stiles is Stiles and John knows his son too well to think that he would avoid trouble even if the werewolves were out of the picture.  Much as he loves him, his boy was a magnet for mischief and mayhem and banning him from seeing any of the Hales would only stoke the fires of teenage rebellion and angst.  His only reassurance is what he’d seen over and over with his own eyes - the way that Derek protects Stiles, the silent communication between the two young men that painfully reminded him of Claudia and finally witnessing to his amazement Stiles actually listening to the other boy, albeit snarking all the time, when John had fully expected him to unthinkingly run head first into danger.

 

It doesn’t make him happy about what’s been going on - the lies, the sneaking around behind his back and God knows what else, but he can’t deny the knowledge that Stiles has someone looking out for him like that is oddly comforting.  Still, he’ll be having a little talk with Derek Hale about his son and age of consent laws, preferably in his study where he can multi-task and maybe clean his gun at the same time.  Actually his whole collection could do with a bit of maintenance now he comes to think about it.

 

Gently closing the front door behind him, John looks up and down the porch.  The cool night air wraps around him and he shivers feeling its chill through his uniform jacket.  The warm exhalation from his lungs forms pale white vapour clouds with every breath.  In the furthest corner, where the porch light doesn’t penetrate the shadows as deeply, he sees a dark shape hunched over the railing.  Head hanging down and hands upon his knees is Peter Hale.  He winces as he hears awful retching sounds coming from that direction. John moves slowly towards the other man, hears the creak of the weathered porch floorboards underfoot, unsure of what response he’ll get from the werewolf to his presence. 

 

One thing he’s never doubted is his gut instincts, even though they’ve taken a battering over recent days, and they tell him unequivocally that beneath that sophisticated, urbane veneer Peter Hale wears, he is more than dangerous.  He’s deadly.  Which makes it more bewildering as to why he’s out here in the first place.  He wishes he could answer the question why, but he can’t explain it or the pull he’d felt to follow the other man and come out onto the porch.  

 

Seeing the werewolf’s shoulders go tense as he observes him sends an electrical current over the surface of John’s skin, the fine hairs of his arms and nape stand on end, energized by the potential threat all his senses are on alert.  The heightened buzz the same as when he gets called out to a crime scene.  His fingers brush over the grip of his gun in its holster, calluses neatly matching the weapon to the divots and ridges of regular use etched into his flesh.

 

Peter pushes himself up from the railing and John can see even from where he’s standing that Peter’s long fingers are wrapped around it tightly.  Even with the dim light he sees that the other man’s knuckles are strained and white from tension.  Peter sways slightly as he hangs on with one hand and swipes at his mouth with the other.  John doesn’t move closer and he doesn’t offer a steadying hand.

 

“If you’ll excuse me John.. I’m slightly indisposed at the moment.”  Peter’s voice is low, mannered and so tightly controlled it feels vicious in its restraint.  John has only encountered the other man a couple of times over the past few days and yet he can tell that the werewolf is hanging onto that control by a razor-sharp thread.  The exchange he’d just witnessed which had Laura literally jittering in place with power and primal satisfaction had left this man, Scott’s former Alpha, shattered and weakened.  Weakened, but not broken.  He needs him to go, to get the hell outta there so John can think and not feel this sneaking, creeping sliver of sympathy that’s unfurling deep within him.

 

“Why did you do it?”  John asks, wincing internally as he repeats what he’d asked in the house before the ritual and not the firm dismissal he’d intended.  “What were the reasons?  Because if it was to impress me..”  His voice trails away when he hears a wet rasping sound.  It’s laughter, from what he realises is a raw and abused throat after all the retching he’d witnessed.

 

“I am under no illusions as to your opinion of me.”  Peter’s eyes flash fiery red at him piercing the shadows.  “My balls can testify to that and I may not be able to alter that opinion.. **_yet_** , but I can change what I think of myself.”  Peter lowers his head and huffs out a deep breath through flaring nostrils, when he lifts it again his eyes are human, crystal blue once more and glittering hotly at him and John feels a discomforting tension thrum through his body, more so than when they are burning red.  He shakes it off and ignores it, because he’s been a cop longer than he dares to even think about and he’s not easily intimidated, not even by his own body’s traitorous unwilling reactions.

 

Still, it’s jarring to hear that the man he considers the worst sort of self-absorbed psychopath might actually have a conscience.   He refuses to believe it.  Can’t allow himself to.

 

“So that’s a yes then.”  The words slip out before John can rein them back in and there’s a stunned silence that engulfs the pair of them on this isolated gloomy porch as they stare at each other, neither able to look away.  Peter starts to snicker and John can see the glint of very white teeth in his smile as he chuckles softly with genuine amusement and somehow he looks younger and not as threatening when he does.

 

“I’m admitting nothing.. but has it worked?”  Peter questions almost hopefully, shrugging his broad shoulders in resignation when John snorts his derision.  There’s a mischievous twist to Peter’s lips and it sits well on his handsome face.  Suits him.. and John mentally recoils.. what the hell is he thinking?

 

“You should go.”  John’s voice is rougher, harsher, than he intended and thus more revealing as he waves a hand out towards the night and he mentally curses his lack of discipline.  “Get back to whatever rock you crawled out from.” His pulse thuds heavy and quick under the thin vulnerable skin of his neck and he knows that the other man’s heard it from the way his eyes narrow and stare fixedly at his throat.  Peter’s smile slowly disappears.

 

“Are you offering me a ride then Sheriff?”  Peter asks in a low voice.  So dark and intense that it sounds like he’s thinking John’s offering a whole lot more than a car ride home and his expression is no longer amused, but slightly vulpine and it feels like he’s closer and taking up more space even though he hasn’t moved an inch.  John stands his ground determinedly, although his hand settles on his gun more firmly.

 

“No.  Just want to make sure you don’t pass out or die on Melissa’s front lawn.”  John manages evenly as his fingers wrap around the grip.  Peter takes a step closer and John takes one back.

 

“Melissa.  An attractive woman.  A strong one.”  The words are slightly slurred and John realises in bemused horror that Peter’s mouth is bulging, lips stretched around the large fangs that have dropped from his gums.  “Just a friend or..”

 

Peter leaves the question hanging.  A low rumble of discontent vibrates from his chest, his lips curling dangerously, and John is startled to realise that the werewolf sounds almost.. kinda like.. no way.. he can’t be jealous.  He can’t deny that at one time he’d thought there might’ve been the possibility of more with Melissa.  She’s beautiful, intelligent, brave and loves his son as much as her own.  It made perfect sense.  He cared for and loved both her and Scott, but as much as he did he couldn’t imagine taking off his wedding ring for them.

 

He’d tried though.  A few years ago, they’d managed to go on a date without their boys knowing, because God knows if they had they would not have let it go, he and Melissa weren’t unaware of their kids dreams of becoming one family.  However, when your date consists of solely talking about your children’s recent bout of chicken pox and how much they disliked the kid’s current teacher, Stiles’ new medication and Scott’s asthma, they’d both come to realise that though they were close it wasn’t a romantic bond.  It was two single parents battling to bring up their kids right and pay the bills on time, needing someone to lean on who understood and he’d come to the realisation that Melissa McCall was actually his best friend.  The one person he could always count on and maybe that was a Stilinski trait, that both he and his son had a McCall for a best friend who is as close to them as siblings.

 

“Or none of your God damn business.”  John snaps, all too aware from the way Peter’s head sways slightly from side to side like a cobra, with his nostrils flaring wide, that he’s deeply inhaling his scent.  It’s way too disturbing to think about how Peter’s picking up on a whole bunch of things he’d really rather not think about purely from how he smells.  Whatever he gets out of it, Peter seems to relax and he’s no longer looming intimidatingly over him and considering they are near enough the same height John can’t quite work out how he managed it in the first place.

 

The tension throughout his body doesn’t ease even though Peter backs off.  It has his muscles locked so tight he wouldn’t be surprise to hear the sound of tendons and ligaments snapping from the strain.  Frowning, John winces as the lump on the back of his head gives a particularly vicious throb, pain skewering right through his skull and it feels like it’s penetrating straight through his eyesocket.   His eyelids flutter closed, much as he tries not to take his eyes off the predator in front of him, but it’s an uncontrollable reflex.  He jerks wildly as strong fingers gently probe through the short strands of his hair sending goosebumps coursing over his scalp and down his shoulders and spine in a shivering wave.  The pain dissipates almost to nothing, becoming a distant manageable twinge. 

 

His eyes snap open and he sucks in a sharp gasp of cold night air that makes his chest seize briefly as the chill reaches his lungs.  Peter’s close.  Really close, with the way one arm encircles his neck and shoulder it’s enough that John can feel the puff of warm air from the wolf’s breath against his face and he wonders why he can't smell the stench of Peter being so ill.  Does their amazing healing ability affect even this?  They’re not touching, but John can feel the heat radiating from the werewolf’s body like a lure and has to stifle an urge to move in closer still so he can absorb it. 

 

Turning his head slightly, something spicy, almost exotic tantalizes his senses making his nose twitch.  Sandalwood, flickers through his overwhelmed mind and he inhales again.  John ignores the hitch he hears in Peter’s breathing as his lightly stubbled cheek and jaw brush over the exposed sensitive skin of Peter’s inner forearm.  Black veins pulse beneath the other man’s skin and he watches helplessly fascinated as with every throbbing pulse he witnesses, the pain in his head recedes further and further away.

 

“Stop it.”  John grabs at his arm and yanks it away, all the while knowing that the other man lets him.  The release of pain has ‘Thank you’ sitting on the tip of his tongue and John swallows hard trying to hold back fifteen years of good manners drummed into him by his _babcia_ , his grandmother, before she left this world.  He can’t allow himself to forget that this man was the same man that had brainwashed and kidnapped his son, the same man that had literally torn another werewolf to pieces in the middle of a lonely forest.  Peter Hale is a killer and he can’t let himself forget that for one moment.  Being ungrateful and ill-mannered should be the very least of what he deserves.

 

The werewolf’s face is pale and sweat dews his forehead and upper lip, the strain of what he’s been doing clearly visible.  Smooth skinned hands bracelet John’s wrists and he rubs his thumbs in rhythmic circles over and over the dark bruises that had formed there from their last encounter.

 

“I like my marks on you.. I need to see them, but I would not see you hurt by any other hand.”  Peter growls fiercely, possessively, his icy blue eyes flashing to twin points of red that flick between John’s eyes and the arms he holds in a firm unbreakable grip.  The implication washes over John like a hot torrent of lava centred on the dull ache of his bruised flesh as Peter presses his thumbs hard into the dark stains.  Re-marking him.

 

Hissing in pain, John groans the other man’s name softly and Peter freezes.  A flush of red blooms high on his cheekbones and the cords in his neck stand out as he swallows hard.

 

“John.”  Peter rasps, the pink flutter of his tongue licking his lips like he’s tasting something good is.. distracting.  His fingers stroke soothingly over John’s mottled wrists and for one fraction of a second, his grip loosens.  It’s all John needs as instincts of self-preservation rise and take control.

 

Immediately, John swivels his wrists inwards and then out, the sudden well-practiced movement taking Peter by surprise as the rolling motion forces his fingers apart and releases John from his hold.  Stepping back out of reach, John has his Glock in his hands pointed at the other man’s head all within a heartbeat.

 

“Leave.”  John bites out.  Peter’s wide-eyed for one moment, a truly surprised expression on his face and John thinks for that brief instant he really **_sees_ ** the other man, before a slow delighted, almost satisfied, smirk stretches his mouth wide.

 

“My mate.. so perfect for me.”  He moves forward and it’s with a feline grace and supple rippling movements that remind John of a great cat rather than a canine.  “Mine.”  He whispers fiercely and John stumbles back with his gun still raised as he absorbs the burning hot gaze that runs over his face and body.  The sheer want that Peter exudes for him leaves him reeling with disbelief and amazement.  He clamps down on the unwanted feelings with grim determination, shoving them ruthlessly aside.

 

“Stay back.”  Satisfaction wells within him when he hears that his voice thankfully sounds firm and certain.  “Don’t move.”

 

But, Peter glides forward unrelenting, unstoppable until he presses his forehead into the barrel of John’s gun and he can’t stop the tremor that jerks through his hands, his finger twitching wildly over the trigger.  Wonders if werewolf healing could handle a bullet to the brain from such close range.

 

“You’re mine John.”  Peter smiles almost tenderly at him.  Looking up through the dark fringe of his long eyelashes he presses harder into the muzzle, the flesh indenting palely, as John shakes his head in denial.  “Then put me down now, because I won’t stop until you are.”

 

John holds his breath, because as sure as he’s heard many threats over the years this one.. this one truly frightens him because it’s not a bluff.  Peter means it.  He won’t rest until he has what he wants.  One John Stilinski.

 

“Dad.”  The sound of his son opening the front door draws John’s attention off of the man in front of him for a split second like the rawest rookie.  Turning back, heart in his throat, the porch is empty and John can feel his body start to shake with long-suppressed reaction as he quickly returns his gun to his holster and clenches his fists tight to regain control.

 

Stiles steps out onto the front porch and moves to stand beside him, his head tilting to one side as he examines John’s features searchingly.  “Hey.  What you doing out here?”

 

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.”  Stiles watches him dubiously and John schools his face into a bland, stoic mask.  He heaves an internal sigh of relief at Stiles’ eventual nod of acceptance before clapping his hand onto Stiles’ shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of his son beneath his touch is both comforting and grounding like it always is.  The dark bruise at his wrist peeks out mockingly from the sleeve of his jacket and with stomach clenching wildly he quickly lowers his arm to cover it.

 

“Lets go inside.”  John guides Stiles back towards the front door and into the warm house, surreptitiously looking over his shoulder out into the darkness.  Tells himself that the twin points of glowing red in the distance are the tail lights of a far-off vehicle and tries to believe it.

 

He closes the door.


End file.
